


a return

by togglemaps



Series: the price of survival [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Homophobia, Angst and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Robb Stark is a Gift, Stark Family Reunion(s) (ASoIaF), Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togglemaps/pseuds/togglemaps
Summary: Sequel to blood and flesh and it should be a miracle.Sansa reunites with her family.
Relationships: background Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Series: the price of survival [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1176140
Comments: 7
Kudos: 86





	a return

**Author's Note:**

> This fic isn't going to make any sense if you haven't read the other fics in the series, unfortunately. If Sansa thinking or reacting to positively to Sandor bothers you, this probably isn't the fic for you unfortunately. This isn't a Sansan fic by any means, but I thought it worth noting this anyway. 
> 
> I've added some content warnings in the endnotes if you would like to check them before proceeding. If I've missed anything, feel free to comment and let me know.

She was slumped over the saddle of the horse, her eyes fixed on the ground ahead of her. She always started the ride upright, but something dragged her down, turned her eyes to the ground beneath the horses feet. The Vale knights who accompanied her kept staring. Were they frightened she would fall off? They shouldn't. She was a lady of the North and had been riding almost as long as she could sit up by herself in a saddle. 

It wasn’t the riding that plagued her. 

Would her family want to see her? She couldn't avoid it, the idea that they would think her a traitor, would believe that she had sided with the Lannisters over her own blood. It ate at her. It wouldn’t let her eat or sleep, wouldn’t just _leave her alone_. 

She hadn't, they would see that, they had to see that, they had to, they had to. She hadn’t wanted any of it, not even the crown Joffrey had bought with her father’s head. It had taken her so long to see the truth, but she _had_ seen it, they would understand, they would, they had to. 

But what if they didn't? 

Lord Royce was kind. The knights who rode with him were kind. Yet when she saw them out of the corner of her eye, she braced for a blow all the same. 

She was safe, and unbroken, but couldn't quite bring herself to believe either. It lingered, in the tense line of her shoulders and the rock in her stomach that wouldn’t go away no matter how little or much she ate. There was no such thing as a moment without fear, nothing untainted by it, not anymore. 

When Lord Royce had offered to return her to the North, to her family, she hadn't believed him. It was a test of Littlefinger’s, surely. If she said, ‘yes, yes, please, return me to my brothers, return me to my mother’, she would be thrown out, abandoned to the gods knew what in the Vale. It had taken her a week to gather the courage to go back, to whisper yes, she was who he thought, do you think my brother would take me back? Last she'd heard, Robb had married and returned north to retake what was left of their home from the Ironborn and to rout out the traitorous Bolton bastard. 

“Your brother is heading for the Wall,” he had told her. Lord Baelish had been gone, off doing who knew what and leaving her alone with her aunt and nephew. “Leave a note for someone to find, but tell no one that you're leaving.” 

They had been on the road for what felt like weeks now, but she’d been so lost in her own thoughts, so busy worrying, that she’d lost track of the time. How close she thought they were to the North was determined entirely by the chill in the air. 

And then they came to Winterfell, an abandoned and burnt out ruin. 

Lord Royce let her go pray in the Godswood for the dead and for the ancient seat of her house, though she spent most of her time crying for what was left of her home. She sat there, clutching at her skirts, trying not to scream, not to wail. When she calmed, she prayed for father, for mother, for Robb’s victory, for Arya and Lady and Bran and Rickon, for all the people who had died here when the castle burned. She felt as though no time at all had passed before Lord Royce gently insisted they move on. She prayed that night as well, kneeling on the ground in her tent, her forehead resting on her joined hands. 

She slept poorly that night, haunted by Old Nan, by Maester Luwin, by Hodor, all of them wandering the ruined halls of Winterfell. She even saw Jeyne Poole and her father and sisters. Jeyne was crying and her father held his own head in his hands. Had he been one of the men executed with Sansa’s own father? She couldn’t remember. He had been killed in King’s Landing, she knew that for certain. 

The next day, her eyes were gritty and sore and her head aching from lack of sleep and one of the men gave her a second cup of peppermint tea, murmuring his sympathies about poor sleep. 

These men were all so very gentle with her, so very kind. It hadn’t been at all her experience of such men since the death of her father. She had once thought them all like her father, like Jory, like her uncle Benjen. She knew now how wrong she had been. 

The kindest of those men who came after had been Sandor Clegane, who was a harsh man but at least had refused to beat her and had come for her when the mob had…he had come for her, and that was more than anybody had done for her in so long. 

In the end, even Robb hadn’t come for her. 

It didn’t seem so long after that, that the Wall was in sight. She was stiff and sore from being in the saddle for so long, certain she would walk bowlegged forever. It was so far in the distance that one of the knights had to point it out to her, who had it pointed out to him by Lord Royce. _If Robb isn’t there, Jon will be,_ she thought. She had once thought she would never see any of her brothers or her sister again, that she would live and die in King’s Landing, surrounded by lions and knights in soiled white cloaks. _But Jon is there. I will see Jon again._ Suddenly, she missed him so much she ached. 

“How long?” she asked. Her voice croaked a little. When had she spoken last? It can’t have been when they left Winterfell, surely, and yet she couldn’t remembering having said anything since then. Where were her courtesies? These men were helping her, were doing all they could for her. She cleared her throat and said, “How long til we reach the Wall, do you think, ser?” 

“A few days still I think, my lady,” he said, smiling gently. “The Wall is so big, you see, it fools you into thinking you’re closer than you are.” 

“Of course. Thank you, ser.” She stared at the Wall, trying to will it closer. She thought only of seeing Jon, who she knew was at the Wall, and not of Robb, who could be anywhere. She blinked back tears. Soon. She would see her brother soon. 

The wooden gate rose slowly and Sansa followed Lord Royce into the yard of Castle Black. 

Robb was here or, at the very least, Robb’s men were here. There was a direwolf banner hanging from one of the stone walls that surrounded the castle and she could see men who served House Glover, House Umber, House Mormont and so many others. When she got off her horse, she spotted a man wearing the Stark direwolf, but deflated, shoulders slumping, when she didn’t recognise him. 

Lord Royce was speaking to a man all in black, but then she spotted another, striding over the yard towards one of the stone buildings. 

Robb. It was Robb. 

He was nearly tripped by Grey Wind, who suddenly burst into sprint when he saw her. Robb was in the middle of yelling at his direwolf when he spotted her. He froze and gaped, then burst into sprint and ran right at her. 

Robb nearly knocked her off her feet when he slammed into her, wrapping her up in his arms so tightly it hurt. “Oh gods,” she said. “Oh gods, oh gods.” She began to cry, great heaving sobs that half choked her in their intensity. Her legs collapsed out from under her and Robb swept her up in his arms and began moving quickly away.

He was saying things she neither heard nor understood. When he put her down, she was on a chair in a large, warm room with Theon sitting cross legged on the bed and playing a card game with a large, blond man who sat with him. Theon had very, very short hair and a gauntness that was new and shocking. Grey Wind sat near the foot of the bed, almost exactly half way between her and Theon. 

“Oh, hello,” Theon said. “Brienne, this is Sansa Stark. We thought she was dead, but it turns out she isn’t. Isn’t that becoming common? I wonder who else will turn out to have been alive all this time? Perhaps the Mad King?” 

“That doesn’t seem likely,” the man—woman?—said. 

“Sansa, this is Lady Brienne. We didn’t used to be friends, but now we are.” Theon pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to Lady Brienne, who rose and handed it to Sansa. 

“I hope you know that when you get better, I won’t keep doing that.” Brienne sat back down on the bed, frowning. 

“I think you will. A habit like that can be hard to break.” 

Sansa wiped her face and then blew her nose. She hesitated and Theon said, “Keep it. I have plenty.” As though to illustrate the point, he pulled out a second handkerchief which he offered to Robb, who had just reentered the room and looked precisely as bad as Sansa had to assume she looked. “Have some dignity,” Theon said. “You’re a king, for gods sake.” 

Robb also wiped his face and blew his nose. “They’re setting up a room for you by this one. We’ll need to send a raven to mother in White Harbor, she’ll want to know you’re alright. Rickon, too.” He crouched beside her, leaning on the arm of the chair. “I’m so glad you’re alright. I thought—I’m so glad you’re alright.” 

“We have already established that we thought she was dead, haven’t we Brienne?” Theon said. 

“Theon,” Lady Brienne said, sounding pained. “I don’t think now’s the time.” 

Robb, it seemed, was intent on ignoring Theon. “Would you like to have a bath?” Robb asked. “It will take a little while to arrange but—” 

She picked at the skirt of her dress and said, awkward, “I don’t have any more clean clothes. I have some dresses in the pack on my horse, but they’re all dirty.” Embarrassed, she added quickly, “We’ve been travelling a long time and didn’t want to take a lot with us. Well, Lord Royce didn’t. Speed was more important than—” She cringed, not wanting to imagine how she smelled. 

“Take a whiff of Robb or Jon, next time you see him,” Theon suggested. “They do not smell like winter roses.” 

That was different though. They were men and fighting wildlings at the Wall. They were allowed to smell as they did, but Sansa—it was shameful. Still, when Robb pulled the collar of his jerkin away from his throat and ducked his head down to sniff, she giggled. When he pulled an exaggerated disgusted face, she outright laughed for what felt like the first time since everything had begun to fall apart. 

“Dirty clothes is a problem easily solved,” Robb said, smiling. 

“That’s a lie,” Theon said. 

Sansa laughed again and Robb hung his head, rubbing at his forehead with one hand. “Theon,” Robb said, packing a great deal of exasperation into a single word. 

“What? You shouldn’t lie to the girl, she’s been through enough.” 

There was a thump against the door and then scratching. Sansa jumped and Robb smiled at her and squeezed her hand. “It’s just Ghost,” he said and, before he could rise to his feet, she dashed around him to open the door. Ghost, who was even larger than Grey Wind, gave a solid attempt to dance happily around her feet, silent and far too big to manage it in the space available. She laughed and crouched down to wrap her arms around his neck. He immediately stilled and started nuzzling at her hair. Suddenly a heavy weight at her back winded her and when she turned, it was Grey Wind, leaning his massive bulk up against her. 

“You’re too big to do that now,” Robb scolded. “Go, go bother Theon.” 

Grey Wind huffed, let out a quiet whine, and then walked over to flop mournfully beside the bed near Theon, who leaned over and said, “People thought I was dead too, you know. Just think, you would never have been able to bother me again. You could be happier about it.” Grey Wind sighed and Theon rolled his eyes. 

She sat on the floor, crossed legged, and Ghost lay down in her lap, his head resting on her stomach. She scratched Ghost’s belly and Grey Wind let out a sad whine. 

“You are not a pup anymore,” Theon said. “Have some dignity. Robb can’t manage it, but you should be able to. You’re a direwolf!” 

Sansa giggled. The door was still open and when she looked up, Jon was standing at the end of the hallway. He was frozen, staring down at her. “Hello, brother,” she said. 

“I—what?” Jon said. 

She opened her arms and he ran down the hallway, falling to his knees beside her and wrapping her up in a gentle hug. Ghost wiggled out from between them. 

“Lord Royce brought her home from the Vale,” Robb said. 

“When did the Wall become her home?” Theon said. 

“Would you _stop_ ,” Robb said, at the same time Brienne said, tired, “Theon.” 

Robb stood up. “I’m going to arrange to have your clothes washed.” 

“How kingly of you,” Theon muttered, under his breath. 

Sansa laughed and so did Jon. 

“It’s fine,” Jon said. He stood up and Ghost immediately laid back down on Sansa’s lap. “I’ll get someone to do it. Satin will probably know how to do it without destroying them. It won’t take long.” He frowned and tugged at his beard. 

“You can leave them to dry in here,” Theon said. “We always have a fire going, so no chance of them freezing.” 

Jon nodded, and left. 

Sansa scratched under Ghost’s chin. She hadn’t realised that it was still possible for such magic to happen to her. Joy had been something made for songs and the lives of luckier people than her. She clutched Ghost tighter to her and held the feeling close. 

She had been at the Wall three weeks. Theon had taught her three card games he’d invented and Sansa had invented one of her own, whose rules were much easier to understand than Theon’s. She’d helped Maester Aemon with making bandages and had spent a lot of time mending Jon and Robb’s clothes. Jon had tried to insist that he could do his himself, he just hadn’t the time, and had only reluctantly handed them over when she pointed out that she had the time, not to worry. Once she was done with that, she moved on to trying to mend the clothes that had been abandoned by various stewards of the Night’s Watch as unfixable. Mostly it wasn’t difficult, though sometimes she had to admit they were now only fit to be rags. 

The Smalljon was the first to bring some clothes to her for mending, sheepish and smiling and slumping a little to try and seem less like a giant. He had been far from home for the first time, and for so long. Like Robb and Jon, he hadn’t had much time for mending and there were better, more important things for squires and the like to do. 

It pleased her to remember that there were people in the world who valued the use of something over it’s looks. After that, she mended many of the men’s clothes, sewed cloaks and jerkins and trousers and socks. It made her feel useful. 

In the middle of the third week of her being at the Wall, Arya and Sandor Clegane arrived. The shouting she could hear coming from the yard wasn’t unusual—the wildlings attacked regularly and there were so many people at the Wall that sometimes fights broke out amongst the men, all living too close and with little to do when they weren’t being attacked. A loud, familiar high pitched voice rose above the others, shouting, “Stay back! I want to see my brother! Where is he?” 

Theon, no longer bed bound but still chair bound, rose to his feet and walked as quickly as he could, which wasn’t quick at all, to the window. “Do you suppose that’s who it sounds like?” He peered down, though they were too far up to be able to see much detail from the window. 

She stood, her mending falling carelessly to the floor, and began walking down to the courtyard. 

“Brienne, would you—ah yes, good woman,” Theon said. 

Brienne cast a large, comforting shadow, hovering at her back. The first person she saw wasn’t Arya, but Sandor Clegane and she waved when she saw him and was immensely pleased when it seemed that he hadn’t actually seen her do something so silly. _Waving,_ she thought, scornfully. _Why on earth?_

“Hello, my lord!” she called out. “Have you come to take the black?” 

“Fuck I have,” he said, then went red when he saw her. “No, I’ve brought—” He reached down and picked someone up, who shrieked, “Put me down!” 

It was Arya, without a doubt it was Arya. Her hair was cut short and she was in boys clothes and even dirtier than Sansa had been when she arrived, but it was Arya. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, but found herself frozen to the spot. She’d been so sure, everyone had been so sure—

“What’s going on?” Jon demanded. “I’m sure you men have better things to do than stand around here and if you don’t, I’m sure I can find you something to do.” 

“Arya!” Sansa said, finally broken free of her stupor. She immediately began trying to elbow her way through the crowd of men, Brienne lunging forward to try to make space for her. Sandor had put Arya down, but it was easier to try and make her way to him and hope that she found Arya close by. 

“Sansa, what are you—” Jon said, alarmed. 

“Arya!” she said, not sure if she was answering Jon or calling out to her sister. 

“Sansa!” Arya replied. “They get out of the way when you kick them!” 

“They have _swords,_ Arya!” Sansa said, appalled. A number of them were even drawn. How hadn’t she noticed that the reason she had such trouble reaching Sandor, was that a number of men were actively trying to stop her from reaching him? 

“Stop!” Jon bellowed, and she and everybody else froze. “Everybody move away from my sister.” A number of men shuffled away from Sansa. “I can’t guarantee that Robb won’t throw you in the dungeon if you hurt her.” They shuffled further away. 

She moved towards where Arya had been and the men shuffled away from her again and then, Arya was there. Sansa shrieked with joy and lunged for her, hugging her as tightly as she could manage. “I thought you were _dead_!” 

“How are you _here_? I thought the Lannister’s had you!” 

“They did! But then Stannis took King’s Landing and—” 

“Did Robb really defeat Tywin Lannister in battle? Is Tywin really dead?” 

“Do you _really_ think they tell me those sorts of things?” 

“Is Jon here? And Robb?” 

She stepped away from Arya and turned her in Jon’s direction, who was still standing there blinking at them. Arya hesitated, but then Jon moved towards them, arms open and she ran for him. 

“Would somebody please tell the King that Sandor Clegane has returned his sister, Arya, to him?” Sansa asked the crowd of men politely. Four of them immediately began moving towards the elevator to the top of the Wall. She then turned to Sandor, and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. 

“Didn’t know you were here,” he said, gruff. 

She nodded and then turned back to Jon and Arya. Jon unwound one of his arms to welcome her into the hug and she wrapped herself around both of them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” It was like a song, though she didn’t want to voice such a silly thought out loud. It then made her think of Bran, still missing, and she rested her head against Jon’s shoulder. It was a miracle that she was still alive, that Arya was here, that Robb had made it through war and Rickon been rescued before the sack of Winterfell. To want another miracle atop all the others was surely churlish and selfish, but she still hoped that all her siblings would be together again, someday.

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa experiences some hyper-vigilance and nightmares as a result of trauma.


End file.
